


Living With Hamish Holmes

by daleksanddetectives



Series: Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and Father of One [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Bullying, Established Relationship, Ficlets, Fighting, First Relationship, Firsts, Gen, Growing Up, M/M, One Shot Collection, Parentlock, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Sherlock, Return, Sherlock is a father, Unconnected to the main story, break ups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleksanddetectives/pseuds/daleksanddetectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one shots and ficlets partner to my "Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and Father of One" series showing what the trio gets up to when they're not chasing down criminals or solving mysteries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When I grow up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish decides he wants to follow in a certain someone’s footsteps.

Age 9

* * *

“I’ve decided what I want to be when I grow up,” Hamish announces, yawning into his cereal.

“And what’s that? Nothing too dull I hope,” Sherlock mumbles sleepily from the sofa.

John shoots him a dark glare.

“Nope,” Hamish smiles, unoffended, “I want to be a doctor. Like John.”

A fond smile spreads across John’s face, “a medical doctor? What would you like to specialise in?”

Hamish shrugs, “haven’t decided yet. I’ve got plenty of time to try stuff out and choose though.”

“Are you sure?” John sits opposite Hamish, “it takes a long time to become a doctor, a lot of hard work. I can give you a hand with it if you like; find some good books and journals? And I'm sure when you're a bit older Sherlock will help you with some dissections, or ask Molly nicely if she'll show you around the morgue properly, without your dad whinging about everything.”

Hamish nods enthusiastically, “thank you, I have lots of time though. I want to be a doctor because I want to help people like you do.”

“Would you rather not become the world’s second consulting detective?” Sherlock asks, “you’re getting better with your deductions.”

Hamish sticks his tongue out, “maybe I could be both. ‘Hamish Scott Holmes-Watson, consulting detective doctor extraordinaire’,” he grins, holding his hands up as if seeing his name on a billboard.

John blushes at his use of his own surname, marriage was something they had never considered, having been together a very short time, and until that topic came up the idea of changing Hamish’s name was out of the question.  He glances at Sherlock, checking if he too heard the slip up. _He did_ , John thinks, seeing Sherlock looking between them. When he catches John’s eye, his expression softens and something sparks in his eye.

“Holmes-Watson, you say? I much prefer the sound of Watson-Holmes.” He smirks.

Hamish’s eyes widen, and it’s his turn to blush.

John decides to play along, folding his arms and leaning forward on the table, “hm, yes, I agree. Watson-Holmes does have a nice ring to it.”

Hamish looks between the two men before leaping to his feet, “would you look at the time? I’m going to be late for school.”

He scoops up his backpack and runs from the room, almost tripping over his shoelace and bag.

“Get back here, Hamish,” Sherlock says in his best ‘concerned father’ voice, trying to keep the smile from his face.

“No!” Hamish shouts from the front door.

It slams shut as Sherlock and John dissolve into giggles. 


	2. Sixth of January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can be a bit of a grouch on his birthday, until he finds he can use the “it’s my birthday I’ll do what I want” card to his advantage

Age 9

* * *

“Wakey wakey, Sherlock!”

Sherlock cracks open his eyes and is suddenly aware of a weight on his thighs. He sees John still in his pyjamas, straddling the backs of his legs. He watches a grin spread across John’s face and silently buries his head in the pillow.

“Come on, wake up,” John squeezes Sherlock’s waist encouragingly.

A muffled, “nooo” escapes the pillow.

“You know what day it is,” John singsongs.

“Exactly why I would like to go back to sleep until tomorrow.”

John smiles fondly, tracing small shapes on Sherlock’s nude back, “please? Hamish is excited.” Quiet footsteps begin to descend from the upstairs bedroom, “speak of the devil,” he smirks.

Sherlock groans and squirms further into the pillow. Hamish shyly knocks on the door twice and John folds his arms and sits back, “come in.”

Hamish stands sheepishly at the door, still wearing his pyjamas. He steps into the room and stands by the side of the bed.

“Is he awake yet?” He whispers.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock mumbles.

Hamish grins and leaps onto the bed and sits cross legged beside them.

Sherlock grunts and turns over. John raises himself up to move to the side, but Sherlock grips his thighs and says, “if I have to be awake now, you’re staying there.”

John rolls his eyes and sits back on Sherlock’s thighs as Hamish shuffles closer.

He produces two brightly coloured envelopes from under his pyjama top and smiles, “happy birthday, dad.”

Sherlock takes them and opens the first one, ‘Dad’ scrawled across the front. The card is the usual colourful, funny animal card you find in Tesco or ASDA, but when he opens it a piece of paper falls out. Sherlock picks it up to read;

_This voucher allows Sherlock Holmes to use St. Bartholomew’s morgue for three (3) hours and the lab for four (4) hours on a day of his choosing for experimentation, data collection and analysis._

_Signed, Molly Hooper & Hamish Holmes_

“I talked to Molly, she said you could have three hours in the morgue as long as you don’t mess anything up,” Hamish says.

“Thank you,” Sherlock rereads the note, written and signed with Molly’s loopy writing, ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in Hamish’s scrawl, “I’m sure this will come in very useful.”

Hamish looks to John and puffs his chest up with pride.

The second envelope, coloured obnoxiously yellow, reads ‘Sherlock’ in John’s familiar spidery writing. Sherlock tries to angle the card away from Hamish, to avoid him reading the rude joke on the front. Out of this card falls a folded piece of A4 paper. He opens it to find a reservation for three at his favourite restaurant.

“For tonight,” John elaborates, “the three of us are going out for a meal whether you like it or not. My treat. No distractions.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock awkwardly sits up to press a gentle kiss to John’s lips.

Hamish makes a choking noise in the back of his throat, “gross.”

“Why don’t you go grab first shower, Hamish,” John smiles, “while I try to get this lump out of bed.”

Hamish giggles and climbs off the bed, shuffling into the bathroom adjoining Sherlock and John’s bedroom. He shuts the door firmly and the shower powers on.

John picks up the cards and leans over to place them on the bedside table, which Sherlock takes as an opportunity to nuzzle up into his chest and put his hands under John's t shirt.

“Oi,” John warns, settling down on Sherlock’s chest and resting his cheek on folded arms.

Sherlock doesn’t stop, his hands mapping John’s back, “I’ve not been treated like this on my birthday for a long time, does this mean I’ll be getting birthday sex?”

“I am not getting off with you when your son is in the next room over,” John says, swatting Sherlock’s hands away, “even if it is your birthday.”

Sherlock frowns, “how about a birthday snog then?”

“I suppose that would be okay,” John smirks, leaning forward to nibble on Sherlock’s lower lip, “for now.”

Sherlock snakes his arms around John’s back again and lets himself be kissed for a few moments, but as soon as he has the opportunity, he flips them and ends up situated in between John’s legs. 

“That’s not playing fair.”

“I never play fair.”

Sherlock ducks his head and gets back to kissing John, not wanting to waste a moment.

John eventually hears the shower cut off and pulls away. Sherlock tries to follow, but John playfully smacks his hip and says, “wait till I give you your proper present. Now, off.”

“Could this ‘proper’ present as you put it have anything to do with me, you and this bed?” Sherlock says hopefully.

“Possibly,” John winks and steals a quick kiss, before pushing on Sherlock’s shoulders to sit up and begin to shuffle off the bed, “Hamish wanted to cook you breakfast as a treat. I need to oversee it in case he inherited your talent to set everything on fire. Go find your dressing gown.”

“I don’t set _everything_ on fire,” Sherlock pouts.

“Yes you do,” John calls back from the hallway.

Hamish’s cooking goes ahead without a hitch, not even getting one speck of grease on his school uniform. John had mixed up some batter for pancakes and Hamish had cooked and served them up. Sherlock pads into the kitchen to find a plate full of pancakes and a large mug of coffee awaiting him. He sits in his designated spot and allows himself to be waited upon by the nine year old, devouring five large pancakes, all drowning in unhealthy amounts of syrup.

Hamish and John also eat their fill, each armed with a mug of tea and choosing jam over syrup as a topping. John shoos Hamish away to get ready for school when he begins to clean up the kitchen.

Hamish reappears with his tie neatly done up and his backpack thrown over one shoulder.

“Do you have enough money for lunch?” Sherlock asks over his mug, warily eyeing the pile of post on the table.

“Yep! Bye dad, you can have your present later,” Hamish cheekily ruffles Sherlock’s hair, and nimbly jumps backwards when Sherlock swats at him, “bye John.”

John waves from the counter as Hamish goes to trot down the stairs, most likely stopping to say hello to Mrs Hudson on his way out.

For the next half an hour Sherlock sits at the table, sipping his coffee and opening the numerous cards that had come in the post.

“Dull.”

“Obvious.”

“Have they no imagination?”

“I weep for the intelligence of my extended family.”

John chuckles at each comment while he washes and dries the dishes.

There is silence for a few moments until Sherlock quietly makes his way to behind John and rests a hand on his hip to purr into his ear, “could I have my present now?”

John carefully places the dish cloth back into the sink and whirls around, trapping Sherlock against the table. He kisses him deeply and drops his hands to Sherlock’s bum.

“Legs around my waist,” he mumbles.

Sherlock quickly complies, allowing John to lift him with ease and carry him through to their bedroom. He deposits Sherlock on the bed and kicks the door shut, rushing back to give Sherlock his ‘birthday present’.


	3. First (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A seventeen year old Hamish breaks up with his first girlfriend, luckily John is there to give some advice.

Age 17

* * *

John comes home to a tightly wrapped bundle curled in on itself on the sofa.

 _Sherlock or Hamish?_ He thinks, j _udging by the size, Hamish._

He drops his shopping bags on the kitchen table and sits beside the blanket cocoon. He rests a hand where he assumes the occupants hip is, “hey,” he says, “you alright?”

A face emerges from the lump, Hamish’s eyes have dark shadows around them, “what?”

“You’re not getting ill, are you?” John asks, resting a hand against his forehead, suddenly concerned at the boy’s paleness.

Hamish sniffs, “no.”

“Then, you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Hamish sits up, taking the blanket with him, and perches on the edge of the sofa, “well,” he starts, “you know that girl I was seeing? Jackie.”

John nods.

“She broke up with me this morning.”

John just manages to keep his surprise silent, instead nodding again for Hamish to continue.

“She did it this morning, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get a reason from her. Apparently she just didn’t ‘feel it’ anymore.” Hamish says.

“Well, some people just don’t completely click, you know,” John says, “maybe in the future, she’ll change her mind and ask you out again?” He suggests, “happens quite a lot.”

“I suppose.” Hamish pulls the blanket around himself a little tighter like a cloak.

“Is there anyone else? For either of you? Or are you both happily single for now?”

Hamish thinks for a moment, “I don’t know, there was this guy she’s been friendly with recently, but I don’t want to accuse her of anything.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

John nods.

Hamish thinks again, “there is this boy, in Biology,” he says slowly, “we get partnered together a lot, and he acts like he’s interested in me, he knew that I wasn't single so he never acted on anything,” Hamish pauses, putting the pieces together, “I mean, he’s attractive, yeah, but, I don’t know. I never really took notice because of Jackie.”

“Well Hamish, it might seem a bit quick, but why don’t you ask him out for coffee or something? The worst he could say to you is no.”

Hamish nods, pushing his blanket down from his head, revealing unruly curls similar to Sherlock’s on a bored day, “I think I might.”

“What’s his name?” John says, smiling.

Hamish grins back, “Toby.”


	4. First (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish brings home his new "friend" for the first time to meet his father and John.

Age 17

* * *

“Hi, John. Bye, John,” Hamish says heading straight for the stairs up to his bedroom, tugging his school bag higher on his shoulder.

John blinks at the whirlwind passing the kitchen and puts down his newspaper, watching Hamish stride along the passage, a smaller blonde boy in tow.

John looks between them and shouts, “Hamish? Who’s this?”

“Friend,” he smiles over the banister, “we have to do partnered work for Biology.”

John nods and the two boys scurry up the stairs, and when John hears Hamish’s bedroom door shut he pulls out his phone to fire a text off to Hamish; Studying? Oldest line in the book. I saw how you were looking at each other. What do you want for dinner? Would your ‘friend’ like to stay? JW

John waits ten minutes for a reply, and when one doesn't come he lets his curiosity about Hamish’s friend get the better of him. He carefully climbs the stairs, avoiding the creaky third step, and knocks on the closed door. He hears urgent scrambling and then a loud, “come in!”

Hamish sits wide eyed on his bed, his hair a mess and his cheeks slightly pink.

“Everything alright? You didn’t reply to my text,” John leans against the door frame. He glances down at the floor, “isn’t that your friend’s jumper?”

Hamish swallows and purses his lips in thought, “that’s mine,” he lies, “from yesterday. I meant to put it in the laundry basket.”

John raises his eyebrows, “last I knew you didn’t even like,” he cocks his head to read the text, “ _Rammstein._ ”

Hamish glares at the ground.

“Where’s your friend? You didn’t hide him in a cupboard or out the window when you heard me did you?” John smirks.

“No,” Hamish tuts, nodding towards the other door in his room, “he’s in the loo, and his name is Toby. Where’s dad today anyway? I haven’t seen him.”

“No idea, he took off this morning shouting something about cats and jewellery and I haven’t heard from him since. You know what he’s like.”

A small smile creeps onto Hamish’s face, “could you not tell dad just yet?” He asks, fiddling with the bed sheet, “about Toby. I know you've worked it out.”

John sighs, “okay. You’re 17 now; I can’t stop you, but be careful, alright? Sherlock’ll probably work it out as soon as he sets eyes on you anyway.”

Hamish rolls onto his back, “urgh I know. But just for now, I need to warn Toby about dad and I’ll introduce them to each other soon.”

“If you’re really that serious about him, maybe we should get you a lock for your door to avoid any mishaps,” John winks.

“John!” Hamish sits up quickly, flushing red.

John snickers, “joking. But you are getting older now, so,” he trails off, leaving the discussion open for another time.

Hamish grumbles, “I suppose. What did you want anyway? You didn’t come up here just to spy on us did you?”

“No, I’m ordering pizza for dinner. Is your friend- sorry, Toby, staying?” Hamish nods and John continues, “I’ll let you know when it’s here.”

John pulls the door closed and Hamish hears his footsteps descending the stairs. Toby pokes his head around the bathroom door, Hamish motions with his head that he can come out.

“You know, your dad doesn’t sound as bad as you make him out to be,” he says, sitting beside Hamish and stretching.

Hamish raises his eyebrows, “that wasn’t my dad. That’s John. Dad’s boyfriend, or partner, or whatever they call each other. Apparently you’re invited to stay for dinner.” When Toby gives him a look, he continues, “John worked it out.”

“And he’s fine with it?”

Hamish leans into Toby’s personal space, “yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound.

Toby grins and closes the space between them, gently pressing his lips against Hamish’s.

\------

Half an hour (and lots of kisses) later, John is calling the teenagers down for dinner.

He is armed with three pizza boxes, and spreads them out on the table after removing the chemistry equipment. He smiles at them both when they arrive, “get yourselves plates and dig in.”

They take a few slices each and sit next to each other on the dining chairs.

After a few moments of silence, the front door opens and clicks shut, confident steps taking the stairs two at a time.

“You texted him,” Hamish hisses at John.

John looks offended, “not this time kiddo, he’s like a stray cat, you never know when he’ll be home.”

Hamish sighs and leans over to Toby and whispers, “this is him.”

When Sherlock enters the room Hamish speaks immediately, “dad, this is Toby.” He pauses at looks between them, “my boyfriend.”

“I see,” Sherlock says, shrugging off his coat and throwing it over the back of John’s chair.

“Toby, this is Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective and my father.”

Toby smiles and bobs his head.

“How long?” Sherlock demands, taking a pizza crust from Hamish’s plate and popping it in his mouth.

“A week,” Hamish says, “though I wasn’t sure if it would be safe to bring him home or not, even after the warnings I gave him.”

Sherlock nods, muttering something that sounds like _should have brought those ears home_ under his breath.

He pauses, “isn’t Molly’s cat named--“ he’s cut off by John playfully slapping his arm and sitting opposite Hamish, “so, Toby,” John starts, “as it seems as though we’re going to be seeing you here a lot more often, tell us a bit about yourself.”

\------

**A few months later:**

Hamish and Toby are tangled together on the sofa when John and Sherlock return from a case. Toby is sat properly with Hamish half on his lap, legs thrown over his thighs and snuggled into his side. Toby has one arm wrapped around Hamish’s waist and is reading a book.

“Nice of you two to come home last night,” Hamish grumps, “where’ve you been?”

“Case,” John yawns, kicking off his shoes, “kipped on Greg's sofa, was easier.”

“You’d think you were the father here,” Sherlock sits on the sofa beside them while John hangs up their coats, “you know, ever since you got a boyfriend you’ve become a lot grumpier and sarcastic.”

“Yeah well ever since you got a boyfriend--“ Hamish snaps, but cuts himself off, unable to think of an insult. Instead he narrows his eyes and sighs, settling with whispering “happier.”

He looks up at his father through his eyelashes, trying to avoid direct eye contact. He sees a smile cross Sherlock’s face.

“I’m suddenly reminded of the nine year old who tugged on my shirt and begged for John to stay, so you have mostly yourself to thank that.”

Hamish grins, “I didn’t make you kiss him though. I knew exactly what you were up to when you got home from Angelo’s.”

Sherlock smiles again, “brat.”

“Freak,” Hamish retaliates.

“Alright boys, no name calling please,” John sighs from the doorway, “we’re ordering Indian for dinner, are you staying Toby?”

“If it’s okay with you,” he smiles, “I’ll text my mum to let her know.”

John nods and leaves in search of the takeaway menus, while Toby pulls out his phone, ignoring the almost-telepathic conversation going on between Hamish and Sherlock. When he’s done he picks up his discarded book and rearranges himself comfortably under Hamish.

Seemingly concluding their conversation, Sherlock smirks and stands to leave, ruffling Hamish’s hair on his way. He narrowly dodges Hamish’s half-hearted kick.

“Oi, pass the remote before you leave, lanky git,” Hamish shouts, settling back into Toby’s chest.

He sees Sherlock smirk as he picks the remote up and throws it at the sofa. John snorts from the kitchen, “like you can talk Hamish, you’re taller than me now, you beanpole.”

Hamish takes the remote and switches on the television. After a moment of watching Sherlock following John around the kitchen, Hamish realises Toby hasn’t read a page of his book in quite a while.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, rubbing his nose against the other boy’s chin.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Hamish glances a look into the kitchen, seeing John berating Sherlock for stealing his mug of tea, “we fight quite a lot,” he continues with a whisper, “it’s okay in the end though. We’re too alike, dad and I, and we’ve always had our tiffs, but we always make up in the end.” Hamish leans back and smiles up at Toby, “and John is a good referee, although he has trouble stopping us when we start arguing in other languages. Maybe that can be your job; you took French and German at GCSE, didn’t you?”

Toby tsks and pulls Hamish closer to his chest, throwing his book on the floor and focusing on the tv.


	5. Bully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish gets in a fight with a bully.

Age 13

* * *

 

Hamish tries to tip toe into the flat and up to his room as quietly as he can. He avoids slamming the front door, misses the creaky step and is halfway up the final flight of stairs when Sherlock clears his throat from the living room door. John is standing behind him, ‘concerned parent’ practically written across their faces.

“Why are you late home?” Sherlock demands, folding his arms.

“Um,” Hamish pauses, “a lot of the trains were off, so I decided to walk home.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, “truth.”

Hamish chews his lip, “I stayed back at school to help with some stuff?”

“ _Hamish_.”

He groans and hoists his backpack higher onto his shoulder, “he was asking for it.”

“Asking for what?”

He grumbles and holds up his hand, palm facing inwards, revealing cuts and bruises and dried blood.

John clicks his fingers at the armchair, “sit. I’m cleaning that up and then you’re going to tell us what happened.”

Hamish brushes past Sherlock and trudges to the chair while John fetches his medical kit. He throws his bag to the floor and slouches, hanging his hand over the arm of the chair. Sherlock perches opposite him and stares. Hamish groans.

“Don’t even start,” he grumbles sliding further down the cushion.

Sherlock tucks his hands under his chin, “I wasn’t going to say anything. I can already see that you got into a scrap. Again. What was it this time?”

John returns to see Hamish roll his eyes. He crouches beside the chair and opens his kit. He takes out the necessary and begins cleaning up Hamish's hand.

“Just tell us what happened,” John says, applying antiseptic cream and plasters, “we’d rather hear it from you than from your head teacher.”

Hamish purses his lips and toes his shoes off, buying time.

“Like I said, he was asking for it.”

“So a kid in your class came up to and asked you to punch him?” John scoffs, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I was leaving school and this older kid was shouting at another kid. I recognised him from one of my classes and we've talked a few times. I went and asked him what he thought he was doing picking on someone younger than him and he hit me, so I hit back. I turned out to be the better fighter and he legged it. End of story.”

John sighs, “anything else? Or was it just your hand?”

Hamish shuffles uncomfortably, “he was a lot bigger than me and knocked me over. I grazed my head.”

He lifts his fringe to reveal an angry looking graze close to his temple.

John sighs and finds the cream again. Hamish winces when he rubs it on, “it stings,” he complains.

“Then don’t pick fights with bullies. Keep your hair off that.” John picks up his things and takes them to the bathroom to clean up.

Sherlock remains silent, not having moved or spoken a word during John’s doctoring.

“You can tell me off now,” Hamish grumbles, “ground me or whatever. It was my fault.”

Sherlock raises his head, “you think I should ground you?”

“Well, yeah,” Hamish frowns, “I beat a kid up and came home with a bloody hand and face. Isn't it what most parents would do if their son did that?”

“Most likely. Go on then, if you were the parent in this situation, what would your punishment be?”

“If this is some kind of trick-“

“No. Tell me.”

“Fine,” Hamish sighs and tucks his feet underneath himself, “I’d probably ground myself for a few weeks. Maybe take away my phone or games consoles. Something that would piss me off-“

“Language.”

“-annoy me so I know not to do it again.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up.

“One week then. You barely go out anyway, so there isn’t much point in keeping you in. You’re thirteen; I doubt punishing you will do much to alter your behaviour now. But I or John will contact your school for giving you the idiotic idea that you felt you had to stand up for him.”

“And get a teacher next time,” John interjects, returning to the room. He perches on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, “maybe I can teach you some self-defense if something like this happens in the future, and then you can look after yourself and then find someone older to help you.” John smiles warmly.

“Fine,” Hamish mumbles, cradling his hand.

John stands again, “go do whatever homework you have tonight while I start dinner. We’re having roast, and Sherlock is going to help.”

Sherlock pulls a face but drags himself into the kitchen, pausing to ruffle Hamish’s hair. John shakes his head and follows after shooing Hamish up the stairs to his room.


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves in.

Age 9

* * *

“Sherlock!”

John stumbles on the top few steps of the staircase, almost dropping the large cardboard box in his arms. He looks up to see Hamish sat on the next flight of stairs, his small face peering in between the bannister poles, “would you forgive me if I killed him, Hamish?”

Hamish giggles and shuffles down a few steps, “I can help with the boxes if you want?”

“No, too heavy. This is the last one for now anyway, I just want him to know the threat is still there,” John winks, making Hamish laugh again.

“Where is his majesty anyway?”

“Unpacking.”

John turns and marches into the living room, growling, “Sherlock.”

He finds the man in question rifling through one of John’s boxes.

“I’ve barely got the last box through the door and you’re already going through my stuff?”

He stretches out on the sofa and begins flicking through the pages of a recent medical journal. John sighs and throws himself into the armchair he’d claimed as his, Hamish settles opposite him in the more angular chair.

“Will you and dad be sharing a room?” Hamish shuffles the toes of his shoes, only just reaching the floor.

“You just want to stay in the bedroom upstairs, don’t you?”

“Of course he does, John,” Sherlock says, turning a page, “he ‘called’ it apparently. Would you be opposed to the other room? Mrs Hudson will allow us to rent another if you want it.”

“That depends doesn’t it? Do you snore?”

Sherlock flicks his eyes up from the book, “do I  _snore_?”

“Well? Answer the question or I’ll go talk to Mrs Hudson.”

“How can I know if I snore, John? I’m asleep when it happens—“

“He doesn’t,” Hamish cuts in, hugging his knees, “the last flat was small and my room was next to dad’s. He doesn’t snore.”

“Thank you Hamish,” John nods, “I suppose you will get to keep the big room upstairs then.”

Hamish grins.


	7. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's return after the Fall. In which John must remain calm, he is a father now, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a little bit of angst.  
> I realise I haven't actually written TRF yet, but I think we all know what happens. In this 'verse, Sherlock leaves more than just his ex army doctor behind.

Age: 12

* * *

Sherlock knew it would be easy to sneak back into 221b. John hadn’t changed the locks in the time Sherlock had been ‘dead’. He also hadn’t fixed the bullet holes in the wall, and the yellow smiley face he’d spray painted in his throes of boredom years ago continued to look down on the room. Billy the skull now wears the old deerstalker, which Sherlock frowns at, until he sees a small framed photo of himself, John and Hamish taken shortly after they first met sat on the mantle.

He doesn’t hear the front door open and close, only realising he isn’t alone when he hears soft footfalls on the stairs.

“Is that you John?” An almost familiar voice calls.

Sherlock turns to see Hamish frozen in the doorway, now twelve years old. Sherlock feels his throat tighten at the sight of his son; he’d gotten so much bigger in the time he’d been away. Where there had been a scrawny nine year old, had become a strong twelve year old, already filling out and losing the childishness of his face. Sherlock suddenly realises how much he’s missed. He missed celebrating his son’s birthdays, finishing primary school, getting his SAT scores, sending him off to secondary school. He can’t help but notice he’s still small for his age, but has perfect posture and piercing eyes that remind Sherlock of his own.

“Dad? How are you...” Hamish’s satchel falls from his shoulder, landing with a quiet thump.

Sherlock smiles sadly, Hamish’s voice had already started getting deeper, something else Sherlock had missed.

“Hamish, I—“ he starts. He’s interrupted by the twelve year old slapping his cheek and shouting.

“I _hate_ you. How could you?” Tears begin to roll down his cheeks, “how could you leave us? We were happy, dad. You, John and me. Was that not enough for you?”

“I can explain,” Sherlock says calmly, rubbing his cheek.

“Don’t bother,” Hamish growls, “I don’t want to see you again.”

The front door slams and Hamish turns on his heel and climbs the stairs as fast as he can, snatching up his bag and continuing to shout, “John, you might want to get rid of that piece of rubbish in the living room. I doubt you’ll want it either.”

“What are you talking about, Mish?” John calls back, slowly making his way up to the flat, “you best not have made a mess while I was out.”

Hamish snorts loudly and slams his bedroom door shut, making sure the noise echoes through the flat.

“What’s got into him,” John mumbles to himself, pocketing his keys and trudging up the final few steps. At the sight of Sherlock, John lurches forward, dropping his bag of shopping by the door and curling his hands into fists.

“Please, no,” Sherlock holds his hands up in surrender, “Hamish already slapped me.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, John takes a deep breath and smiles sweetly, unfurling his hands and taking Sherlock’s face in his hands, “is it really you, Sherlock? You’re alive?”

Sherlock nods quickly, hoping for a less extreme reaction.

“Right,” John says, before standing on his tiptoes and head-butting Sherlock’s nose, making him stumble backwards.

“ _John_?”

“You complete and utter cock,” he snarls.

“John, I—“

“No, Sherlock. You have no right to just waltz back in here. You didn’t even let Hamish, your own son, know you were alive?” He paces in front of Sherlock, “he’s been so good. He dealt with your death so well and now you go and do this. The last time I saw him cry was after your funeral, and now he’s up in his room sobbing.”

Sherlock focuses his eyes on the floor, ignoring the throbbing in his nose, “I can explain.”

“No. Leave. I can’t even look at you right now,” he sighs, “I can’t decide if I want to hug you or punch you, so you’d best go before I decide. If you’re going to ask to be part of our lives again, which I know you’re about to, you’re going to have to let Hamish adjust; he’s the one who spent the last three years believing his _father_ had died. I’m his legal carer now, and I don’t want you anywhere near him at the moment.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump, “I still have my phone. It’s the same number. Text me when you’re ready.”

“ _If_ ,” John folds his arms, “if we decide we want you back.”

Sherlock’s raises his eyes once, taking in John’s stern expression, and nods, starting to walk towards the stairs.

John waits until he hears the latch drop before going up to Hamish’s room.

He knocks on the door gently, “hey, you okay? Can I come in?”

He hears a sniffle and a quiet, “yeah.”

John opens the door and sees Hamish sat cross-legged on his bed, the sleeves of his jumper damp from where he’d quickly wiped his eyes.

“Is he gone?”

“Yeah,” John sits beside him, wrapping an arm around the small boy’s shoulders, “I told him that he isn’t allowed back here for now.”

Hamish leans into John, “I don’t want him to come back. We buried him. How could he do this to us?”

John makes a soothing sound and pulls Hamish into a hug, which the boy melts into, finally letting himself cry properly into John’s jumper. John gently strokes Hamish’s hair and waits for him to calm down. He presses his nose against Hamish’s temple, encouraging deep breaths.

“I have to ask you, Hamish. Do you want to see him again? It doesn't have to be here. You don’t have to say yes, and you can take your time to answer,” John soothes.

Hamish sniffs, “I do want to see him. I’m happy he’s not dead, but I’m angry and I’m afraid I might hit him again. Or kick him, whichever part of him I can reach.”

John laughs, “get in line kiddo.”

“Can I watch when you hit him this time?”

John squeezes Hamish’s shoulder again, “like I’d let you miss that.”

“Are you going to see him?” Hamish asks after a moment.

“I have to,” John sighs, “I’d rather not, but he said he had a reason for leaving us and I’d like to know. I’ll probably meet him somewhere neutral, in a café or somewhere, if you want to come.”

“I want to know too. I’d like that.”

John smiles, “we’ll sort it out. What he did was horrible, and I may not be able to control the direction of my fist next time I see him, but no one gets second chances like this, Mish. ”

“I guess,” Hamish shrugs.

“I’ll talk to him,” John rubs Hamish’s shoulder, the small boy leaning in close again and wrapping his arms around John’s waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of Sherlock's return, to be continued in part two; The Reunion.


	8. The Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Hamish agree to meet with Sherlock and listen to what he has to say after his return from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a short and fluffy welcome back to the family Sherlock but it ended up getting longer and longer and longer still. Sorry it took a while as well, I keep flitting between all the ongoing fics I have and nothing is getting done. Gonna buckle down and get stuff finished and posted!
> 
> I also made a new tumblr specifically for writing; sherlocksbuttonhole.tumblr.com, where I post updates and occasional mini-fics~

_Angelo’s. Tuesday, 8pm. Hamish is coming too. JW_

Sherlock’s heart leaps at the text he received a week after breaking into 221b and being confronted by Hamish. He knows things are going to be different, but he hopes that they’ll at least listen to him, why he had to fake his death. Sherlock fumbles with his phone for a second and sends a reply, hoping he doesn’t seem too eager.

_Thank you. SH_

Sherlock nervously taps his phone against the table top, hoping for a reply. It comes after a few minutes.

_Don’t thank me. Thank your son. He organised it and booked the table. JW x_

Sherlock smiles. The kiss at the end was a good sign.

[][][][][]

Sherlock arrives at 8 o’ clock on the dot.

He stands awkwardly outside the door until he spots John and Hamish clambering out of a taxi.

“You look like you’re going to your death,” John jokes lightly as they approach him, “don’t worry, I won’t hit you again, but I won’t be held accountable for what I say if you act like an arse.”

A passing couple frown at him, but Sherlock gives him a small smile and holds the door open.

“Buttering me up won’t work either,” John smirks, leading Hamish into the restaurant, who goes straight to the window seat and shuffles into the corner. John slides in after Hamish and Sherlock sits opposite them in the chair.

“Order food first, talking can wait,” John says, handing Hamish a menu.

Someone Sherlock doesn’t recognise takes their orders, and once they’re gone, John nudges Hamish’s elbow, “tell us about what you did in school today then.”

He nods and starts babbling about his Science lessons and how they’re not allowed to do dissections anymore after something that had happened the year before, but when the food arrives, Hamish quietens and looks to Sherlock with a grin, “your turn.”

Sherlock takes a breath and talks, throwing in apologies and explaining what had happened after John left St Bart’s three years ago.

“I told you, you know. On the phone, it was a magic trick,” he finishes.

“What about your paperwork? You’re still listed as deceased,” John says around a mouthful of pasta, “I saw it all when Mycroft was pulling strings to make me Hamish’s guardian.”

“Mycroft is sorting it all for me. He owes me a few favours for everything I did for him while I was away.”

Hamish asks what he had done in the three years, John nods quietly at each story and frowns when they became too violent for Hamish’s younger ears.

“I’m almost thirteen now, John. I’m basically a teenager,” Hamish whines when he notices.

John raises his eyebrows, “tell me again, Hamish, who couldn’t watch past episode three of _Game of Thrones_ because it made him feel queasy?”

Hamish grumbles and stabs at his food.

[][][][][]

Eventually Angelo appears to collect their empty plates, waving off the bill and patting Sherlock on the back, _good to see you again._

“Go help Angelo, Hamish. You never know, if you’re good at carrying the dishes he might offer you a part time job when you’re older,” John says.

Angelo grins, balancing the plates on his forearm, “come on.”

Hamish rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told, taking the empty glasses and following Angelo to the kitchen. Once out of earshot, John speaks again.

“So, where does this leave us Sherlock?”

Sherlock fidgets, “John, I…”

“We were in a good place,” he picks at his thumbnail, avoiding eye contact, “I had the ring, everything was planned out. And then you died.”

Sherlock throat goes dry, “you were going to…?”

John nods, “had your brother’s permission too,” he chokes a laugh, “the ring is still somewhere in the flat. Didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.”

“How did I miss that?” Sherlock rakes his fingers through his hair, “how?”

A smirk grows on John’s lips, “I know lots of hiding places in the flat, and the only people who knew were Mycroft and Hamish. Let’s face it, we were both a bit stressed back then because of the whole Moriarty thing, I doubt you would have noticed anything different in my behaviour. I was going to ask after the Moriarty case wrapped up.”

They sit in silence for a moment, John following the markings on the table with his thumb, Sherlock struggling to find words.

“And, what about now?” Sherlock finally says.

“I would like you back home, more for Hamish than myself. He needs you more than I do right now. In the taxi on the way here he told me how happy he is now he's got his head round it, so look after him first, and we can work on us after, yeah? I can’t say I trust you as much as I did before, but I’ll give you a chance,” John’s voice takes on the tone of Captain Watson, “this is the only chance that I’m going to give you.”

Sherlock reaches across the table and takes John’s hand, “thank you. I’ll try.”

“You’d better,” John smiles, “or I’ll kick your arse into next week. That’s a promise.”

For the first time in years, Sherlock gives a proper laugh, “I don’t doubt that.”

They stand and as Sherlock pulls his coat back on, his chest is assaulted by 4’9’’ of small boy. Hamish squeezes Sherlock’s waist and buries his face in his shirt. Sherlock presses his nose into Hamish’s hair.

“Do you forgive me?” Sherlock mumbles.

“No,” Hamish deadpans, “but I do want you to come home. Properly this time, I missed you.”

Sherlock peeks at John from under his fringe. John smiles gently and nods.

“There’s a hole in the flat that’s been there for three years, and the only thing that can fill it is you, you idiot.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, giving Hamish a squeeze, “I should be going though. Mycroft will be wondering where I am. Thank you for meeting with me, and for listening.”

“You’re staying with Mycroft?” Sherlock nods, making John sigh, “it’s late, come back to Baker Street for the night. Mycroft won’t be happy if you go crashing in at this time of night. You can have the sofa,” John yawns, holding the door of the restaurant open and ushering Hamish through.

“It’s okay; he’ll send a car for me. He’s managed to gain access to even more cameras so I won’t be waiting long,” Sherlock uncharacteristically avoids John’s eye.

“Then text him, you’ve never had a problem with that before,” John says, waving down a cab.

It pulls up to the curb and Hamish pulls the door open, clambers in and tells the cabbie the address.

“I can’t, you’ll want to sleep and--”

“Hearing something polite coming out of your mouth is really weird, Sherlock. Get in the taxi; you’re coming back with us.”

John climbs in after Hamish and gives Sherlock a pointed look before closing the door. Sherlock scurries around the back of the taxi and sits beside Hamish, who mutters at John to _budge up or we won’t fit_.

Hamish snoozes lightly on their way home, leaning against Sherlock’s arm. When the taxi hits a pothole in the road he snuffles and snuggles closer to him, breathing in the familiar smell of his father's coat and old scarf. John and Sherlock share a look over the boy’s curly hair. John smirks and turns away to watch London pass by.

When they arrive on Baker Street, John is the first out. He passes some money to the driver and goes to unlock the door. Hamish is close behind, pulling on Sherlock’s coat sleeve.

“Is it necessary for you to hold onto me so tightly?” Sherlock frowns.

“If I don’t you might try to get away again,” Hamish grins, pulling Sherlock up the stairs, “you have to stay and tell me about everything else you did.”

“Why don’t you head up to bed, Mish?” John says as he peels off his coat.

“I’m not tired,” he argues, swinging Sherlock’s arm.

“You were almost asleep on the way back.”

“But—“ he’s interrupted by a huge yawn.

“But what? Yawning says otherwise,” John laughs, “go to bed. Sherlock’ll still be here in the morning, won’t you?”

Sherlock nods, throwing a smile down to Hamish, “of course.”

Hamish rubs his eye with the heel of his hand and groans, “fine. ‘Night.” He kicks of his trainers and trudges heavily up to his room.

“You actually got him to go to bed the first time you asked?” Sherlock says.

John laughs, “two years ago I told him that if he doesn’t sleep enough his body won’t grow properly and he’ll never be as tall as you. I think we’ve got at least one more year before he realises it’s not true and he turns into a grumpy teenager.”

John crooks his finger at Sherlock and starts walking to the bedroom. He follows John down the hall and watches him open the trunk at the end of the bed. He emerges with one of their spare duvets and a pillow, “here, sleep on the sofa, you look wrecked. Did you even sleep at all last night?”

“I’ve found,” Sherlock says distastefully, “that my body isn’t as young as it used to be, I have to sleep and eat more than I used to.”

“See, even the great Sherlock Holmes is tied down by his mere mortal form,” John winks, “if you can find the air mattress you’re welcome to that.”

“Or I could sleep in my own bed?” Sherlock perches on the edge of the bed and looks up at John.

John snorts, throwing the duvet and pillow at Sherlock, “not tonight, I’ll probably wake up and think I’m hallucinating. We’ll work on it, yeah? We’ve got all the time we need,” he steps between Sherlock’s legs and ruffles his hair, “get in the living room, I’ll see you in the morning.”

[][][][][]

John wakes up feeling weighed down. He snuffles into his pillow and feels an arm around his waist tighten.

“Sherlock,” he chastises, not turning over.

Sherlock nuzzles the back of John’s neck in reply, “the sofa hurt my back, and you didn’t complain when I came in here.”

“Because I was asleep, idiot,” John says fondly. He goes to sit up, but Sherlock’s arm tightens again, pulling him back down, “Sherlock, I have to go to work.”

“I missed you too, you know. Every day.”

John sighs and rolls over to face his bed mate.

“I missed you too, you arse, but London’s colds and sniffles and sprained arms aren’t going to heal themselves. Sarah gave me back my position at the surgery when she found out you’d died and I needed the money to look after Hamish. Why don’t you spend the day with him? He has tennis this afternoon, I’m sure he’d like you to be there.” John grins, “he does like to show off. I wonder where he got that trait from.”

Sherlock smiles, “can I move back in properly, John? I’d rather not stay with Mycroft for much longer.”

“I never did take your name off the tenancy. Mycroft insisted on paying your half of the rent, so technically this is still your flat too. He helped a lot, money-wise, in the first few months.”

“I’ll have to thank him properly then.”

John laughs quietly and leans forward nudging Sherlock’s face up for a quick kiss, “I meant everything I said last night. I’m glad you’re back, I thought it would be strange this morning, waking up to you being there, but it’s okay. The anger will probably catch up with me at some point, but right now, I’m happy.”

Sherlock hums and rolls John over onto his back, hovering over him, hands on either side of John’s head. John giggles and gently pushes at Sherlock’s chest.

“I have work; I’ll get fired again if I’m late.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs. He ducks his head to press his lips against John’s jaw and rolls away to his own pillow.

“I’ll be home at five; I’ll get Chinese takeaway on my way home?”

Sherlock mumbles an affirming noise into the pillow and shuffles down into the duvet.

John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and hauls himself out of bed. He shrugs on his dressing gown and heads out into the kitchen to find Hamish steadily making his way through a box of cereal.

“At least get a bowl,” he mutters, going straight for the kettle and clicking it on.

Hamish freezes; his hand half in the box.

“Sorry,” he looks up at John with big eyes, “I’m a growing boy?”

John throws a teabag in a mug and leans back against the counter, “don’t try it, that face doesn’t work on me anymore. I have work so Sherlock is going to take you to tennis today, you can show him that powerful serve you’ve got,” he winks and sets about making his cup of tea, “why don’t you go wake him up, Mish? You might not get him out of bed if you leave him much longer. He’s as bad as you are for sleeping in.”

Hamish grins impishly and shoves the cereal box back into the cupboard. He tiptoes quietly down the hall, before crashing through the bedroom door, giggling and eliciting an annoyed ‘ _oi’_ from Sherlock. John smiles to himself at the sound of Hamish launching himself onto the bed and prying Sherlock from the pillow.

He picks up his mug and makes his way to the bathroom.

[][][][][]

When John gets home that evening, armed with two plastic bags full of Chinese food, he finds Sherlock and Hamish bickering over the television. Sherlock sprawled across the sofa with Hamish tucked into his side, watching Jeremy Kyle reruns.

“Tell him, John!” Hamish shouts, leaning around Sherlock.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock snorts, “it’s so obvious, how could you miss that?”

Hamish makes a frustrated noise, “ _John_.”

John shakes his head, turning to the kitchen to dish up their dinner. He smiles at the warm feeling in his chest.


	9. A Hospital Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish has a trip to the hospital and Sherlock gets protective of the things he loves.

Age: 10

* * *

“What?” Sherlock snaps into his mobile, “how and when did this happen?...Where is he?...I’ll be there in ten minutes, try not to make any more idiotic decisions before I arrive.”

John looks up from his newspaper, “everything alright?”

Sherlock growls, his arms half in his coat, “Hamish has been taken to the hospital.”

“Seriously?” John stands and unhooks his coat from the door, “I thought he was in school?”

“He was. They were playing football in PE, they won’t tell me any more until I get there.”

Sherlock storms down the stairs and by the time John has caught up, Sherlock has already hailed a cab and climbed in, giving the address to the cabbie. The cab pulls away from the curb after John is settled safely and joins the traffic. Sherlock leans forwards and snaps, “quickly,” at the driver.

John catches the driver’s eye in the rear view mirror and hopes he can convey an apology.

They arrive at the hospital within ten minutes, half the time it would usually have taken in the usual traffic. Sherlock flies out of the taxi straight away, leaving John to pay.

“Sorry about him,” he says to the driver as he hands the money over, “we got a call from his son’s school that he’d hurt himself and he can get a bit… _protective_ over him.”

“That’s alright, mate,” the cabbie smiles, “got a few kids myself and I’d be the same in that situation. Hope he’s alright.”

“Thanks,” John says as he climbs out of the taxi and follows Sherlock. He finds him in the reception area speaking rapidly with a man in a shorts and a hoodie, onlookers watching them warily.

“We thought it was just sprained,” he hears the teacher explain, “we didn’t realise it was actually broken until after the lesson was finished and he went to the nurse.”

John watches Sherlock’s face and steps in before he can say something offensive to the man’s intelligence, “is he bandaged up now? We just want to see him, make sure he’s alright.”

The teacher nods, “this way,” and shows the pair to a small room where they see the small boy sat on the bed looking bored out of his mind.

Hamish immediately perks up and grins at them as they walk in. He holds his arm up, “I got a blue one!”

John shakes his head, “Hamish. How did this happen? Football is a no contact sport.”

“Tell that to Josh,” he snorts, “he doesn’t understand the rules so he just runs around and knocks people over. He ran straight into me and fell on top of me and my arm got twisted funny underneath me.”

Sherlock growls and leaves the room, presumably to find the doctor in charge.

John sighs, “why didn’t you tell your teacher that your arm hurt?”

“I tried to tell them,” Hamish shrugs and picks at a loose thread on his tie, “but they told me not to be such a baby and that it was just a sprain.”

“You know your body best, Mish. You’re the only person who knows if something is wrong. You should have been more forceful about it.”

“ _I know_ ,” Hamish swings his legs, “I wanted to finish the game, but I’ll make sure to tell the teacher next time.”

“There’d better not be a next time, especially if you don’t want your dad to threaten one of your teachers. He almost threw his phone at the wall when they called.”

Hamish giggles as Sherlock storms back into the small room, “morons, all of them. I would have preferred you to put that cast on him, John. At least then I would know it will heal correctly.” He pauses, “what colour is _that_ , Hamish?”

“It’s the same colour as your scarf.” He smiles, obviously proud of himself.

A small smiles creeps onto Sherlock’s face, “it will have to do.”

[][][]

The taxi ride home is quiet. Sherlock occasionally has to swat Hamish’s hand away from his cast, stopping him from picking at little threads.

“Why don’t you go take your uniform off?” John suggests when they enter the flat, “put something more comfortable on.”

Hamish nods and starts up the stairs to his room, “John? Could I have a hot chocolate?”

John rolls his eyes, “alright. Why don’t we have a movie night tonight? You need to rest up if you want your arm to heal properly.”

John laughs when Hamish grins and runs up the rest of the steps. He laughs even more when he turns to see Sherlock pulling a face at him.

“And you have to sit through whatever film he chooses too, Sherlock, doctor’s orders.”

Hamish barks a laugh from upstairs and Sherlock groans as he goes to hang up his coat, “why did we allow him to play football?”

“Hey, he’s your kid,” John chuckles, flicking on the kettle.

“Yes, John. And you are a bad influence on him. I told him such sports were ridiculous. Tennis is far safer.”

Sherlock leans against the counter and folds his arms, pouting at John. John rolls his eyes at him and leans forward to press a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s lips.

“Well, if this has put him off football, he can always try out another sport, can’t he?”

“He can do whatever he wants. The only sport I’m opposed to him taking part in is fencing, I’d rather he wasn’t given something long, sharp and pointy.”

“They do use dull blades for practise, Sherlock. A kid’s class wouldn’t be allowed to have anything potentially harmful.” John starts pouring their drinks. Tea for himself and Sherlock. Hot chocolate (with extra cream) for Hamish.

“You’ve seen him trip over his own feet, John.”

John chuckles, “fine. We’ll find something. If the school doesn’t have any decent sports he can join another club, maybe? Art or music or something?”

They hear a snort from the bottom of the stairs, “I can barely draw stick people and my music teacher suggested that ‘ _maybe Hamish isn’t suited for an instrument’_.” Hamish rounds the corner holding his _Lord of the Rings_ boxset and eyes his hot chocolate. He bounds to John, careful of his arm, and takes it from him, finding a spoon to eat the cream.

“We’ll have a look at what else your school offers, and if there’s nothing you like we can look around the area for you,” Sherlock says, taking his mug from John.

Hamish contemplates this for a moment, “I think I want to try tennis or gymnastics next.”

“As you wish,” Sherlock smiles.


	10. Toby's a good guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a chat with Toby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of based my Hamish on the fandom's usual visual of Asa Butterfield, and I see Toby as looking a bit like Alex Pettyfer in Stormbreaker (with shorter hair).

Age: 18

* * *

 

Sherlock arrives home to a seemingly empty flat. He thinks he’s alone until he hears muffled voices in the kitchen. After hanging his coat on the hook, Sherlock pokes his head around the corner to see his son slouched against the counter with his arms wrapped his friend’s ( _boyfriend’s_ , his mind sneers) waist. Toby stands in between Hamish’s legs, occasionally pressing their lips together and cuddling him close.

Sherlock coughs and they jump away from each other.

“Hamish, would you pop down to the news agents and get me a packet of cigarettes please?” he holds a ten pound note between his fingers and presents it to his son, “you know the type I like.”

“Haven’t you just been out?”

“Yes. I forgot.”

Hamish’s fingers tighten in Toby’s shirt, “John’s still out, text him.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “you think John would buy me cigarettes? I’d rather avoid the lecture.”

Toby steps forward, “it’s alright, I’ll come with you.”

“No need,” Sherlock interrupts, “it’s just around the corner; Hamish will be back in five minutes.”

Hamish narrows his eyes at Sherlock and takes the money to stuff in his pocket. Standing close to his father, Hamish glowers up at him and whispers, “you don’t just _forget_ things; I know what you’re up to. Don’t you dare scare him.”

“And why not?” Sherlock’s eyes flash dangerously, “he could use a good scaring if he wishes to associate with you.”

“I know you mean well, but just behave. _Please_.”

Hamish shoots his father one last glare before making a point of going to Toby and kisses him gently, “don’t let whatever he says get to you, he’s good at playing with people’s minds.”

Toby’s eyes widen as Hamish pulls away and trots down the stairs. He watches Sherlock force a smile and pull out one of the chairs. He sits and puts his hands under his chin.

“Now, Toby. Sit down.”

Toby does as he’s told and sits opposite Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes, I…”

“No, no,” Sherlock waves a hand, “I know exactly what you’re going to say. When Hamish first brought you home I thought you were just going to be a fling, but since it seems that he’s quite enamoured with you, we need to have a chat.”

“Okay, well…”

The chair creaks as Sherlock sits back and folds his hands in his lap, “I’m not going to lecture you. You’ve been with Hamish for four months now and you seem to be an interesting boy, but do remember that John and I deal with hardened criminals on a daily basis. Should anyone hurt Hamish in any way, physically or mentally, they will certainly know not to again. You should also take note that John is ex-military, Hamish’s godfather is Scotland Yard’s best DI, and my brother is the British Government. Make sure you _think_ before doing anything hasty.”

John clatters through the front door at that moment, carrying a week’s worth of shopping.

“Oi, I know one of you is home, nice of you to help,” he calls, shuffling into the kitchen and spotting Toby and Sherlock, “oh sorry, hey Toby. Where’s Hamish?”

“He’s running an errand for me, John. I was just having a chat with Toby here.” Sherlock smiles sweetly while Toby looks between them wide-eyed.

“Oh?” John raises his eyebrows and opens the fridge to put away the shopping, “and may I ask what the topic of this chat is?”

“I’m advising Toby on being involved with my son.”

John nods, “of course. You do seem like a lovely lad, Toby, but do be aware that if you hurt him in any way…”

“My life won’t be worth living, I know,” Toby drags his fingers through his short hair, “Mr Holmes made that quite clear.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up.

“Good lad,” John smiles and continues putting the shopping away, “and call us John and Sherlock. We might as well be on first name terms.”

The front door clatters and heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs.

“Here’s your bloody cigarettes,” Hamish grumbles when he enters the flat. He throws the packet and change onto the table. Ignoring Sherlock and John, Hamish takes Toby’s hand and pulls him out of the chair to walk him up the stairs.

John stares at the white packet on the table, “you sent him out to buy those?”

Sherlock quickly snatches them off the table and shoves the box into his inside pocket, “I wanted to speak with Toby alone and I was running low on cigarettes. Killed two birds with one stone.”

Rolling his eyes, John pulls Sherlock’s jacket open and takes the box. He puts it in his own pocket and points his index finger at Sherlock, “you know the drill. No cigarettes unless I say so, and no sending your barely legal son to buy them for you. I got you some more patches so you can make do with those, now help me unpack the shopping.”

Sherlock grumbles, but takes the box of patches anyway.

[][][]

“What did he say to you?”

Hamish barely has his bedroom door shut before he spins Toby around to interrogate him.

“Listen, if he said anything that offended you in any way, I am so so sorry,” Hamish babbles, hands hovering over Toby’s shoulders, “I’m surprised he’s held off this long, he’s probably been dying to show off,” he sighs and rubs the heels of his hands in his eyes, “he really isn’t good with people.”

Toby squeezes the back of Hamish’s neck, “ _Mish_ , I’ve stuck around because I _like_ you. I’m sure he’ll get used to me soon; he just told me that if I hurt you I’m as good as dead. I’m still not quite used to some of the things he does when I’m here. I’m pretty sure I saw a jar of toes in your kitchen.”

Hamish snorts, “you never get used to him. I’ve been with him my whole life and some of the things he does still amaze me. And I mean that in both good and bad ways.”

Toby laughs, “so, is your uncle seriously the British Government? Or was your dad trying to scare me, and he’s actually the guy who makes the tea?”

“Uncle Mycroft is one of the most powerful men in Britain; he can be terrifying and has control of all CCTV in the UK,” Hamish grins, “but under it all he’s a big softie and sometimes brings me sweets. I’m under strict orders to never share any with dad.”

John’s voice drifts up from the bottom of the stairs, “Sherlock wants me to tell you two that he wants no funny business under Mrs Hudson’s roof.”

“I think it’s too late for that,” Toby whispers.

Hamish snorts and he and Toby fall against the door, dissolving into giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (RE "and no sending your barely legal son to buy them for you". The legal age to buy cigarettes and alcohol in the UK is 18.)


	11. Naming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Hamish Scott Holmes got his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Hamish's mum is called Mary. I named her that before we found out Mary was going to be in season three. She's a different character to the canon Mary Morstan (although I already have a lot of what I'm going to be doing with her and Hamish when I get to those episodes written), and they just happen to share a name.
> 
> But then again what do we say about coincidences?

Age: 30 minutes

“We’re not calling him William.”

“Why not? It’s a nice name.”

“I chose to be called Sherlock for a reason.”

“Scott then?”

“Need I repeat what I just said?” Sherlock sighs, gently rubbing a thumb against the unnamed boy’s cheek. He nuzzles up into Sherlock’s hand and yawns.

“My grandfather.”

“The doddery nice one or the one that glares at me every time you take me to family meals?”

Sherlock gives Mary a withering look over their son’s head, “the doddery nice one, as you so eloquently put it. His name is Hamish, and knowing you’ll end up shortening it within the day, it shortens nicely to Mish or Hal.”

A tiny hand reaches up and shows off his strong grip on his father’s finger, Sherlock looks down and smiles, “see, he likes it.”

Mary rolls her eyes and reaches over to tuck one of the baby’s already thick curls behind his ear, “I like it. Can we use Scott as his middle name then?”

Sherlock nods, “Hamish Scott. It sounds good.”

“While we’re in here he has to have my surname, security reasons or something, but when we leave I want him to take your surname.”

“Isn’t Hamish Holmes a bit of a mouthful?”

Mary shrugs, “he suits it, don’t you think?”

“Let’s hope he hasn’t inherited the lisp.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s cute when you do that,” she giggles.

Sherlock glares from under his eyelashes, “what I want to say isn’t suitable for the ears of our son.”

She laughs again.

Hamish starts to wriggle in Sherlock’s arms and makes a quiet distressed noise.

“He probably wants fed,” Mary says, holding her arms out.

Sherlock carefully passes him over and sits back in the hard hospital chair, “you could do with some food too. Have they brought you anything?”

“I’m fine. The midwife said someone would bring me something soon. You should go back to your classes, he’s probably just gonna sleep for a few hours after he’s eaten.”

“No need,” Sherlock smiles and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “I got the lesson plans and all the notes I need from the professors for the next two weeks. I’m at your beck and call for a fortnight.”

Mary raises her eyebrows, “wow, you’re voluntarily offering to do things. Are you sure you don’t want me to call for a doctor?”

Standing, Sherlock rolls his eyes and presses a kiss on first his girlfriend’s cheek, and then another on the back of this son’s head.

“Go back to uni,” she insists, “by the time you come back he’ll probably be just waking up. I’d quite like a nap too.”

Sherlock sighs and picks up his coat, “fine, but ring me if he does anything interesting. I find that I feel like I’m going to miss something if I leave.”

“I have my phone here so I can even film it if he does anything interesting. Now go. You wanted to study chemistry, so go study it.”

He smiles and gives one of Hamish’s curls a gentle pull before turning and leaving the hospital room.

**Author's Note:**

> Come party on my [tumblr](http://sherlocksbuttonhole.tumblr.com/).


End file.
